


Across the Stars

by wintersdelirium



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games), The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Force Bonds, Jedi Reader (Star Wars), KOTOR references everywhere, POV Second Person, That's Not How The Force Works (Star Wars), im actually about to rewrite this because i woke up and just said 'no' because its not working, im making half of this up as I go, it'll probably end up changing, reader has no idea what's going on at any given point, reader has set name and appearance, summary's in 3rd person pov because it sounds better, this has minimal editing oops, this is another dumb 3am story idea that i have no idea where im going with this but welp
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28541802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintersdelirium/pseuds/wintersdelirium
Summary: War is not glory and grandeur. It is furry and chaos and bloodshed - violence, the likes of which the Jedi vehemently disapproved. But war, in some cases, is necessary.When the Mandalorians threatened to bring ruin upon the Republic and the galaxy as a whole, Tel Agarwin could not sit idle. When Revan asked for those willing to defy the Council's orders and join the war effort, she cast aside her robes in favor of armor and took to the fight with every intention defend the innocent and restore peace to the galaxy.She expected the violence, the death and destruction, but she never expected to witness the aftermath some three thousand years later.Where the Force is involved, even the impossible can become a reality.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader
Kudos: 17





	1. WAR.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no explanation for this, aside from the fact that the idea came to me while I was working on my KOTOR fic (for those of you who have read it, I'm still working on it, slowly, since I have no self-control and can't stick to a single project) and would not leave me alone until I started writing it. As someone who loves the Old Republic era, I can’t not write a story featuring Mandalorians that doesn’t mention probably the most important part of their history. That and a war wary and battle scarred Jedi having to learn to set aside a mountain of prejudice built up from a deadly war and a Mandalorian that makes her question everything she thought she knew about them? Too good to pass up.
> 
> Yes, while I am fully aware that in the “canon” Revan is male, but I do not adhere to that canon because, frankly, I hate it (and I'm still convinced with the way the games were set up, it was written with a female character in mind).
> 
> As a warning, this is written with a more traditional second person point of view in which the character (reader) has a set name, appearance, and personality as I cannot stand the common “insert your own qualities” format (for reasons I will not get into because I’ll be here all day). If that bothers you, this is not the fic for you. 
> 
> While I would not call myself a casual fan, I am not at all a die-hard and haven’t touched much of the EU beyond some of the Old Republic content. That does not mean any errors with continuity are unintentional. Certain events may be altered or even fabricated to better suit the plot. That said, I’m more concerned with the stylistic practice than I am accuracy to the most miniscule detail.

**CHAPTER 1 | WAR.**

There was no glory in war. No fortune to be found among the dead littering the smoldering battlefield. No thrill in the bloodshed, the icy grasp of death as it closed in upon the hundreds of soldiers huddled behind feeble barricades as the bombs rained down from the heavens. Your lightsaber felt heavy in her hands, the hilt smeared with glistening blood as the blade cast an ominous orange glow upon the smoke and dust gathered in the air. All around you, the pained cries of soldiers - good men and women risking their lives to stop the advancing Mandalorian invaders - echoed above the thunderous rumble of the battle overhead. They were dying, their presence in the Force fading faster than you could count. Fifty, a hundred? Perhaps far more.

Were you not fighting to prevent this? To put an end to the carnage and bloodshed? To stop that hallow ache in your chest with every world that fell to the Mandalorian conquest? Was the Council right to refuse the Republic's pleas for their assistance? Had you made the right choice to defy their wisdom and follow Revan to battle? How many of these deaths were your fault?

The questions bombarded your thoughts, as heavy as the bombs striking the blood-soaked earth. The stench of burnt flesh and ozone clung to the air. You tasted it on your tongue, a weighty acrid taste that set your mouth alight, with every breath you drew.

"Commander Agarwin! We can't take much more of this! If we don't retreat before it's too late, they'll overwhelm us!"

You couldn't place a name with the voice. You barely heard it above the din of battle - the screams, the explosions, and the thundering drone of the ships overhead. Somewhere off to your right, a thermal detonator exploded, soldiers screaming in anguish only to stop abruptly as their presence faded beyond your awareness.

Revan was counting on you to hold the front lines while she and Malak oversaw the battle in the skies. It'd been easy to hold the Mandalorians at a standstill, but then the bomber ships arrived, unleashing torrents of proton torpedoes upon the Republic forces. The barrage showed no signs of letting up. It was almost as if the Mandalorians intended to destroy the entire planet to prevent another Republic victory.

You knew they would. Long before the start of the war, while the Republic turned a blind eye to their movements and the Jedi ignored the devastation, they wrought havoc on the Out Rim, raising worlds left and right in preparation for their conquest. Victory at any cost. If it razing entire cities, killing millions of innocent people, and destroying worlds to win, they would do so without hesitation.

Belligerent brutes. Murderers and marauders, the lot of them.

"Fall back," you barked. "Lure them into the caves. We can't do a blasted thing until Revan's fighters take out those bombers, but if we can funnel them through the entrance and keep them occupied."

A full retreat was not an option. With every able spacecraft focused on the battle in the sky and the continued barrage, the present forces had no way to evacuate your division. There was no choice but to stand and fight and pray like hell Revan's plans worked.

They usually did, but even she was not infallible. Some battles needed to be lost in order to win a war, and you could only hope this wasn't one of them.

And so, as your troops braved the continued bombardment and fled into the nearby cave system, you remained at the front lines, the lightsaber still heavy in your hand. Blaster fire streaked past, blurs of muted red against the smoke. A pair of frag grenades landed at your feet, tiny red lights blinking rapidly, and with a wave of your hand, you sent them rolling towards the Mandalorian front line. Once the last of the soldiers began to flee, you turned on your heels and followed suit.

No matter how conflicted you felt about the matter - the war, the death, the bloody carnage - there was a time and place to dwell on such matters. At the moment, the soldiers needed you. You were a Jedi, a Knight of the Order, a symbol of peace, a leader. The men you commanded looked to you for guidance, your presence on the battlefield a beacon of hope in an otherwise dismal war with no end in sight. If you faltered, so would they.

As you wove through the battlefield, dodging bodies and proton missiles alike, ducking beneath blaster bolts and hurtling over crates, you repeated the Code, forcing all other thoughts aside.

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

A sudden blinding pain swept over you. Your knees buckled, a sharp pain blossoming in your chest. In the distance, there was an echo, a tremor in the Force, as if the very fabric of its existance had been torn to shreds, and the chorus of hundreds of voices screaming in unison, only to be silenced seconds later.

You knew that feeling. You'd felt it before, during the early days of the war, when Revan's plans to defy the Council were nothing but whispers among the Padawans and the fear of war spread across the galaxy like a wildfire. Death of a catastrophic scale, a sudden gaping wound in the Force that resonated with the echoed with the final, painful moments of hundreds, if not thousands, of lives.

It stole your breath away, a twisting knife buried deep between your ribs. The world around you faded, the battle a distant hum ringing in your ears. Time seemed to slow, each second an eternity passing. Then, all at once, everything shifted into focus once more.

Someone shouted your name, the voice tinny and distorted as if spoken through a modulator. The commlink on your wrist flashed, the tell-tale beeping lost beneath the clamor of war. You stumbled to your feet, holding your arm closer to your ear as you stumbled forward.

"Tel, get your men and get out of there! Head for the evac, now!"

"Revan?" you asked, struggling to regain your breathe. "What...what was that?! What did they do?"

Revan's response was riddled with static. "City destroyed...lost two...ships...Tel...answer me! Blast...jamming coms...I can't..."

Her voice dissolved into a shower of static and you cursed.

The note of panic in Revan's voice sent your stomach into a frenzy. She was calm, poised and graceful as all Jedi should be even when hell itself descended upon then. You were losing the battle, and it would be no small defeat.

You did not have time to dwell on the matter.

With the dismantlement of the front-lines, the Mandalorian ground forces began to push forward. Calling upon the Force for aid, you hurried across the battlefield, issuing the retreat order to anyone within earshot. Panic overwhelmed your senses as the soldier scrambled, the passing of the order lost beneath a sudden round of blaster fire. A group of heavily armored Mandalorians, armed with vibroblades and repeating blasters, quickly descended upon the retreating soldiers.

With a deft flick of your lightsaber, a low while and a flash of orange, you deflected several of the bolts, sending them towards your pursuers. One struck a Mandalorian woman, armed with two pistols, in the crevice between her neck and helmet. She stumbled, the life slipping from her body before she hit the ground. Another bolt struck a larger man in the helmet, and though it bounced harmlessly of the beskar, it disrupted his focus and sent the numerous shots from his repeating cannon wide.

"We're not going to make it to the ship!" the panicked cry of a solider broke above the calamity.

"If you have time to panic, you have time to run," you snapped. "Get moving, solider. None of you are allowed to die on me, understand?"

You didn't hear the soldier's response, nor did you care to.

Lowering your lightsaber, you drew in a deep, calming breath and turned your focus inward. Something tugged within your core, a sudden wealth of power that spread through you like the rush of water across a sandy shore. It shot through you, from your chest, to your arm, and then pooled at the tip of your fingers. You lifted your hand to the sky and, with a deep, deliberate exhale, allowed that power to flow outward.

Like an invisible blast, the Force rippled across the battlefield. It slammed into the advancing Mandalorians. A chorus of startled cries and a string of angry Mando'a rose from the group as they flew backwards into their comrades. The sound of falling weapons and the clanking of beskar offered a momentary respite from the constant drone of blaster fire.

Turning on your heels, you hurried after the retreating Republic soldiers. The evac ship was in sight, a hazy silhouette behind a smoky screen of dust and debris.

Another bout of blinding pain crashed over you, only this time it was not a sudden rift in the force, but a searing heat that slammed into you with all the subtly of a ranging rancor. The ground disappeared, a sense of weightlessness taking over, and then, with enough force to drive the air from your lungs, you hit the ground. Your temple slammed into something hard, a sharpened edge biting into your skin. Darkened spots danced across your blurred vision. A sharp, grating ring echoed in your ears. Your awareness dimmed, the gentle presence of the Force dimming, as distant and muted as the battle raging around you.

Was this how it happened? Were you fated to be another casualty of war? Another victim of the senseless slaughter? When you agreed to defy the Council's wishes and followed Revan to war, you knew you might meet your end sooner than most, but sooner, you found, came far more quickly than you would've liked.

As darkness crept across your vision, the final line of the Code drifted through your fading consciousness, a fragmented thought lost among the growing haze in your mind.

_There is no death, there is the Force._

Then, there was nothing.


	2. AWAKENING.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wasn't expecting anyone to show an interest in this mess, but people have, and I'm super grateful for all the kudos and bookmarks. I still can't believe people like my dumb sleep deprivation induced ideas sometimes.
> 
> This chapter took a little longer to get out than I'd intended because I ended up scraping it and rewriting it again, but welp, here it is, in all its unedited glory because I am never satisfied and I'll spend the next eight years trying to finish this chapter otherwise. Honestly, there was supposed to be a chapter between this one and the first, but after I noticed I kept switching to third person out of habit, I decided to peek it strictly in second person from the main character's perspective. 
> 
> Fight scenes are the bane of my existance. I'm not good at them and I don't know why I do this to myself but, hey, practice is practice, I guess.

**CHAPTER 2 | AWAKENING.**

Dying was strange.

The Jedi believed that, upon their death, those who embraced the Light became one with the Force. You did not. You teetered on the fringes, your consciousness rising and falling like the flow of the tides, mind plauged by intermittent bouts of awareness among a gaping void of darkness. Weightless, formless; a smoldering ember of sentience struggling to remain within the dark that threatened to smother it.

Was this how you were meant to spend the rest of eternity? An ever-floating flicker of awareness left to question every decision that led you to that moment? Was this punishment for defying the Council, for abandoning the Code and taking arms against a force of evil that threatened to devour the galaxy?

You didn’t know. You were lost, alone and adrift, and with every passing second (Hour? Day? You couldn’t tell anymore) slipping further and further from reach each time you fell back into the cold, unwelcoming embrace of oblivion. It was like a fitful sleep, an endless night of tossing and turning, drifting off only to snap awake again moments later. You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

Perhaps this was what it was like to linger on the fringes of death, to await your return to the Force, if such a thing was possible. You broke the Code. You defied the Council. Did you have the right to call yourself a Jedi anymore?

You soon found you didn’t care. The less you thought about it, the easier it was to drift into the blissful respite of nothingness, into the soul-reaching peace you’d never quite managed to find in life, even among the tranquility of the Jedi Temple. There, in the darkness, there was no war. There was no violence. No judgment. No fear.

Maybe dying wasn’t so bad after all?

…

You weren’t dead.

The thought broke through the haze that clouded your consciousness, igniting a spark deep within your core. In a raging current that threatened to swallow you hole, the Force returned. You jolted, as if waking from a terrible dream. A dull, muffled thud echoed through the darkness. Another followed suit, this one much louder and this time you were certain you heard it. The splintering of glass. The rush of water.

Then you were gasping, sputtering and hacking as mouthfuls of cool, bitter liquid spilled from your lips. Your lungs ached, burning with every greedy breath. Tiny specks of white-hot agony erupted along your arms and legs. Something sharp dug into your skin, each point of contact bringing a sudden burst of physical sensation so overwhelming it made your head spin.

With a low groan, you opened your eyes.

A small, dimply lit room packed with mountains of crates and plasteel containers swan before your blurry eyes. The air was arm and stale, dusty and laden with the stench of mildew and kolto. Weak sunlight spilled through a small, grimy window set into the top of the far wall. In the nearest corner stood a rusted protocol droid blanketed in a thick layer of dust.

Standing was a long and tedious process. Your muscles ached in protest, your joints stiff from disuse. Arm straining with effort, you clung to a rather large crate situated just within reach as you hauled yourself to your feet. Your knees wobbled, a burning pain shooting through your legs. Force, how long had it been since you last stood?

Slowly, you turned you turned around and plopped down on the edge of the crate. Rivulets of crimson trickled down your arms and legs, the embedded shards of glass gleaming in the muted sunlight. With shaking hands, you pulled them free, discarding them in a small, bloody pile behind the crate. Once you removed the last piece, you stumbled to your feet once more and began plundering through the few accessible containers.

There were only a handful within reach, the rest buried beneath stacks too large and too heavy to move, locked, or rusted shut. They contained mostly junk, heaps of spare parts, decorative dishes and dinnerware, threadbare blots of faded clothes, and other odds and ends you couldn’t identify. One crate, turned on its side and buried beneath a mountain of dust, contained several sets of old and warn clothes, most of which were too ruined to be of use. What you managed to salvage was an unappealing and immodest set of faded cargo pants, a pair of leather boots that ready to fall apart at slightest lick of wind, a stringy crop top that left little to the imagination, and a heavy bomber jacket, nearly two sizes too small, coming apart at the seams. It wouldn’t be your first choice, but it was certainly better what you were currently wearing – nothing at all.

Using the remaining pieces of somewhat salvageable clothing, you wiped the blood from your limbs and slipped into the clothes. They were stiff, the fabric scratchy and uncomfortable against your skin, but you’d rather retain some modesty than none at all.

It was then you realized something very important was missing. You whirled, your body screaming in protest, a hand frantically patting at your left hip as your gaze searched the lone, shattered kolto tank. Nothing remained inside but several gallons of cool, clear liquid trickling through the cracks near the base. Swallowing the sudden lump in your throat, you took a deep, deliberate breath, willing the panicked fluttering of your heart to slow.

As if a sudden fog cleared from your mind, the reality of the situation came crashing down over you. The last thing you remembered was a battlefield, the stench of burnt flesh and ozone, the horrific sounds of a bombardment. One moment you were encapsulated in a blast of heat, the sound of a detonating proton missile ringing in your ears, and in the next you were stumbling out of a kolto tank, completely naked, hidden in a shadowed corner of a dismal storeroom.

Your gaze drifted to the panel connected to the tank and your heart sank. The screen was blank, a small plume of smoke rising from the back of the controls, the sound of sparking wires unnaturally loud in the quiet. Any information the tank possessed was now lost to you.

“Kriff.”

Once more, your gaze swept the room. There was no computer terminal to be found, only more boxes and containers piled as high as the ceiling would allow. If not for the clutter, you’d think it an abandoned medical facility. A secret Republic safehouse, perhaps. You heard rumors of such things on the rare occasions you graced the common soldiers with your presence outside of battle; that it’d been the Senate’s idea to establish a series of well-hidden bunkers to prevent the Mandalorians from striking they Jedi allies while they were weak and defenseless.

No, that couldn’t be it. No medical technician would place a being inside the tank unclothed and they certainly wouldn’t put a single kolto tank inside a storeroom, even for the sake of secrecy. There would be more tanks, a proper medical set up, and a technician on standby at all times, likely accompanied by a Jedi trained in the art of healing.

There was another explanation for your current circumstances, but without the information from the panel, or a connected computer terminal, you had no means of verifying that suspicion.

Pushing the myriad of questions plaguing your thoughts aside, you directed your focus to the immediate situation. You were stuck in an abandoned storeroom in an undisclosed location, unarmed and weakened, with no idea of how you arrived. Your only means of information short-circuited, leaving you with nothing but the clothes on your back and your wits. Lovely.

It was simple enough for sort your priorities: located a weapon of some kind, preferably your lightsaber, establish your location, and worry about the finer details, such as how you ended up there, later. Answers, you found, came in their own time. Until then, you would focus on what you could control. Everything else would fall into place along the way, if the Force allowed it.

Locating a weapon proved difficult. Beyond a few warped durasteel rods that you suspected were once part of a ship’s steering column, there was little else of use. If there were weapons stashed in the storeroom, they were buried deep within the inaccessible crates Sighing, you plucked the least damaged rod from the small collection near a rusted and dismantled protocol droid and held it in your hand, testing the weight. It was awkward, unrefined and unbalanced, but sturdy enough to render a few unlucky souls unconscious if need be.

A horrendous screeching, the sound of straining gears and grinding metal, filled the room. The door, hidden in a small alcove on the far side of the room near the window, slid open with a halting hiss. Cursing, you ducked behind the nearest mountain of crates, the rod clutched tightly in your hand.

Two people, swathed in tattered brown clothes that obscured any defining features and armed with heavy assault rifles, stepped into the room. They paused just inside the door; their heads turned towards the shattered tank in the far corner. An unspoken agreement passed between them and, with the barest of nods, they began searching the room.

Silently, you cursed your carelessness. Only a fool would think an empty room meant safety, and you thanked the Force these people, whoever they were, did not arrive any sooner. They reeked of ill-intent, something vile and sinister lingering beneath the cautious animosity radiating from them in near tangible waves. It made your skin crawl.

You weighed your options. There were only two, neither of which seemed very capable, but as you closed your eyes and extended your awareness outward, you found there were far more lingering in the vicinity, at least twenty within your immediate reach and possibly more just beyond. This place was not as abandoned as it initially appeared. You could fight, and risk alerting the rest to your presence, or bide your time and quietly slip out the door while they were occupied with their search.

A wave of exhaustion rushed over you, effectively breaking your concentration. You stumbled as the strength slipped form your body, a dull ache blossoming behind your temples. The Force seemed more distant than ever, a far-off echo you couldn’t quite hear, the barest whisper of wind across a plain of alarming stillness.

“They said the tank was functioning.”

The strange, warbling voice, an alien language that sounded as foreign as it did familiar jolted you from your thoughts. You pressed further against the crate; a hand clamed over your mouth to stifle your labored breathing. Panic began to set in as the gravity of the situation bore down on you. It was worse than you’d first assumed. You could manage without a proper weapon, but without the Force…

_There is no emotion, there is peace._

You forced your breathing to calm once more and shoved the unpleasant thought aside, allowing for more rational thought to take hold. The Force hadn’t abandoned you; you felt it as clear as rain not seconds before. Whatever happened, it was temporary. It had to be.

“It was,” the second alien said, his voice far too close for comfort. “Sedatives didn’t work.”

Oh. That explained it.

“She hasn’t left the room. Find her. She escapes, the boss’ll have our heads.”

You remained silent, listening to their footsteps drift closer, then farther away as they continued to search the room. Slowly, despite the sudden exhaustion and the pain in your limbs, you crept towards the exit. It was a slow and tedious task, but before long you slipped into the alcove and through the door, leaving your captors to their futile endeavor.

The sound of blaster fire split the air, a sudden chorus pistols, heavy rifles, and repeating cannons drifting down the hall. You froze, gaze frantically searching for somewhere to hide, but to no avail. The hall beyond the storeroom was too exposed, the walls bare and without decoration. The commotion drew the attention of your captors, and you barely had time to wedge yourself against the wall next to the door before they barreled past, guns raised.

Your grip tightened around the rod as you lifted it and swung. It connected with the one closest to you, a swift and decisive strike to the back of its neck that sent it crumbling to the ground. Before the second had a chance to react, you wrenched the blaster from the hands of it’s fallen comrade and fired. The shot went wide, the weapon awkward and bulky in your hands.

Force, you hated blasters.

A brilliant red bolt streaked past your face, so close you felt the heat of the supercharged plasma against your skin, and slammed into the wall beside you. Two more followed in rapid succession, both missing by a hair’s breadth. A third struck your left shoulder, a jolt of white-hot pain erupting at the point of contact. Hissing, you flung your good arm out. The alien slammed into the adjacent wall with a hallow _crack_ , then slumped to the floor, limp and unmoving.

Exhausted, you stumbled further down the hall, the blaster clutched loosely in your hands. The sounds of battle had faded, leaving only a few intermittent shots to break the eerie silence that settled over your surroundings. You knew what it meant; the victor left no survivors. It was a practice the Republic soldiers adopted shortly after the Jedi’s intervention in the war. They’d been caught off guard one too many times by a half-dead Mandalorian who wasn’t quite ready to lay down and accept defeat.

Or insulted by the mercy of a Jedi who chose not to kill if it wasn’t necessary.

You paused at the door set into the wall at the end of the hall and turned your shoulder at the two aliens still lying unconscious at the storeroom’s. The blaster felt heavy in her hand, but it wasn’t the heaviness of an unfamiliar weapon or exhaustion. It was the same heaviness you felt in the midst of a violent battle, the burden of holding another being’s life in the palm of your hand. They were unconscious and unarmed, but by no means innocent.

It wouldn’t be wrong, would it?

Of course, it would be. Jedi did not kill their prisoners, or those otherwise unable to defend themselves, regardless of their crimes. Mercy and forgiveness were among the most basic and profound tenants of the Order. All life was sacred.

Pretty, idealistic words, but idealistic didn’t always hold up in reality. No, reality was far more cruel, far less considerate of lofty ideals and scrupulous morals. If left alive, those two may interfere with your escape.

You weren’t given the chance to make a decision. The door slid open with a soft hiss. You turned, nearly fumbling the blaster, only to find yourself staring into the cold, bleak mask of a Mandalorian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware the main character's few moments of clarity might seen a bit inconsistent, but I sort of based it on my own personal experiance with a sedative and...it's weird. It really is like intermitted bouts of consciousness with the added fun of feeling drunk. Of course, a Jedi being a Jedi would probably have an easier time winning that mental battle, or not be as effected.


End file.
